Creatures of Habit
by misty malone
Summary: Molly has a bad habit of dating criminals. Sherlock has a bad habit of saving Molly's life. Meanwhile, they are both in deeply unrequited love...with each other. Sherlolly, of course.
1. Chapter 1

_Hi everyone! Here's the first chapter of Creatures of Habit._

_Just a warning that updates may be slow - I'm trying to write longer chapters this time, so it'll take longer overall to write, but also I have pesky schoolwork etc. I'll try my absolute best but please do bear with me..._

_This fic is rated T for a reason. There is violence. Not too gory but still. _

_Reviews are very much appreciated, so please do tell me how I'm doing :)_

_Disclaimer: Neither Sherlock nor Molly are mine, I am merely borrowing them. But all the boyfriends I made up for Molly do belong to me, though! :)_

_Love Misty x_

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Chapter One

Molly Hooper is a normal human being. And being a normal human being, she acts like one: she has faults (namely crippling shyness, nervous ticks and awful dress sense) and she has positive attributes (namely loyalty, optimism and the ability to know when to shut up).

She also has bad habits (namely stammering, biting her nails and dating highly dangerous criminals.)

She has a cat. She has resigned herself to spinsterhood, yet still feels the urge to be a part in many small, awkward relationships that almost always involve little to no chemistry. And for some strange reason, she decides to show off most of her boyfriends to a certain Sherlock Holmes, either to make him jealous, to try and impress him, or to show him that she was in fact a social person with a life.

(Not much of a life, but still - a _life._)

Showing off her boyfriends does entirely the opposite, in fact; it makes him pity her and think her foolish to have actually believed that her boyfriend of the moment was a) right for her and b) sane.

It had all started with Jim Robinson. (Or, Jim from IT, as Molly had dubbed him.) Jim who had a tabby cat named Fluffy and had watched Glee with her and 'loved it!' And obviously, Sherlock had picked up on every little clue Jim had left him, every little arrow pointing to homosexuality. The meticulously applied eyebrow tint, hair product and lime green underwear had said it all; no, it had screamed it in both Sherlock and Molly's faces.

Except, it hadn't. It was (mostly) all lies: his surname was not Robinson but Moriarty, he did not work in IT but was a consulting criminal, he had positively detested Glee, and his cat was not tabby, it was black with a white sock on the front leg (but was indeed called Fluffy.)

After Jim came a flood of half-boyfriends that were all timid and mousey (quite a lot like Molly) and also partaking in illegal activity, often at risk of serving a life sentence (nothing like Molly), the first of these being Sam.

Samuel Chang, to be precise. Half Chinese, mother was born in Hong Kong but moved to England in 1974, and according to Molly, 'really sweet, and definitely not gay.' She was only partly correct. Samuel was not gay, but in some respects a lot like Jim - he was much cleverer than he let on and the last surviving member of the Black Lotus. Sherlock had successfully made this deduction thirty seconds after Molly had started parading her new boyfriend around the lab, and had approached her afterwards ("Molly, what do you think you're doing? Do you have any idea who you're dating?" to which she had replied, "I don't - w-what - I don't - I mean, what do you m-mean?" He had thus explained the failings of Molly's new found love and earned a glare and a storming out (but eventually, a call to Lestrade).)

Then came Jonah. This one had lasted for such a short time, Molly could not admit to knowing his surname. However, she could admit to knowing that "something was up," and had gone to Sherlock herself asking what the truth about this Jonah was. The truth? He was Jonah Cruz, a petty burglar that Sherlock would have already known the identity to, had he not turned down the case (it was only a five). He had stolen a multitude of items from the local jewellers. This time Sherlock earned a 'thank you' and a nervous smile, and then another call to Lestrade.

After dating three more (a mass murderer with a fetish for dead bodies, a drug dealer, and the supplier to the aforementioned drug dealer who also happened to be a lesbian transvestite) Molly decided to take a break. Mainly because Sherlock Holmes was staying in her flat for a week after his faked suicide, and she was patiently waiting for something to happen between them, which could only happen if she was single. Fortunately (unfortunately?) nothing remotely romantic or sexual did occur, but they did become rather good friends, and Molly lost her stutter, though did tend to blush pink at regular intervals.

This pretty picture was, however, shattered beyond repair when Sherlock left to destroy Moriarty's network (and his cat, Fluffy) without so much as a warning that he was leaving, let alone informing her of which country he was going to (Mexico, then Italy, then New York State). Which left Molly rather broken, seeing as it quite blatanly displayed Sherlock's disregard for her feelings and/or wellbeing.

So, after picking up the pieces, Molly began dating again.

And this time there was no Sherlock to instruct her to stop dating because her new boyfriend was a psychopath not unlike the mass murderer with the fetish.

It was one dark and stormy night when this particular boyfriend decided that Molly would look much more attractive dead.

It was also this one dark and stormy night when Molly put on the black dress from the Christmas party, did her hair up somewhat nicely, and caught a taxi to the Boisdale of Belgravia, 15 Eccleston Street, prepared for her fourth date with a very nice man who she was convinced was not a criminal of any kind.

It was at precisely 10:07pm on this one dark and stormy night when Molly ordered the smallest steak the restaurant did, wanting to try the dish it was famous for, but still sticking to her diet. Her boyfriend only ordered a starter.

He was planning to eat later - something _he_ thought would taste a lot better.

Molly spent most of the dark, stormy night smiling, giggling and agreeing with whatever her date said (after all, it was a lot easier than having an _opinion._) She had a slight tendency to fiddle with the pendant she had adorned her neck with, especially when conversation was slowing down, and she had smiled so much the corners of her mouth were beginning to cry out in protest.

It was at that moment when Molly realised he wasn't 'The One'.

(Not that anybody ever had been 'The One', except for a man she hadn't dated at all and seemingly had no feelings... but she didn't like to talk about him.)

After Molly had finished and her boyfriend paid for the meal (how awfully kind of him!) the pair headed out into the dark, stormy night and engaged in even more painfully polite conversation. Overall, Molly considered him an interesting man. He had travelled a lot, cycled a lot, got a lot of degrees. Yes, he was interesting, but by no means intelligent. She had asked him if he'd been to Budapest and he had positively no idea where it was, or even if it was a city or a country. He certainly knew a fair amount about London, however - he knew a shortcut they could take to get to Molly's road. The alleyway was rather dark and scary, but she trusted him.

She honestly thought that her newly acquired boyfriend wouldn't hurt a fly.

At 11:24pm on this dark, stormy night, Molly's date commented on how lovely she looked in that dress, laughed at her witty response, and then roughly pushed her against the wall. Molly yelped in surprise, then froze with terror at what she thought might have been the glint of a knife. His smile no longer seemed friendly. It was cruel, calculating. "Help!" Molly managed to cry out, before his hand was clamped firmly over her mouth. She could only hope someone had heard, but then again the alley was conveniently tucked away, a dismal place where no one in their right mind would visit after dark.

Molly Hooper was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it. She was going to become one of the bodies in the morgue she saw on a daily basis. What about Sherlock? Would he care? Would he even notice?

Probably not, Molly concluded. And that was OK.

Something hard and powerful hit her on the side of her face (it was the fist of her ex boyfriend, now attacker, but she was far too terrified to think logically), and then again in the stomach, knocking all the breath out of her and leaving her gasping for air. The blows continued. She shut her eyes tightly and tried to imagine it all away, which for obvious reasons did not work. Her head slammed hard against the brick, the pain resounding through her head. For a few seconds she tried resisting the punches, but to no avail. Being a naturally petite woman, Molly was in no way going to be able to put up the slightest bit of a fight.

Molly crossed her fingers and prayed. She had not prayed for seventeen years.

As the attack continued, the pain intensified, despite the fact she didn't really know what exactly was being done to her (probably due to the head injury she had suffered). Everywhere ached terribly and it felt like something inside her had snapped. The breaths she took were frequent and rugged, and it started to become a struggle merely to inhale.

It was 11:32pm when Molly mentally surrendered.

It was 11:35pm when she heard footsteps at the other end of the alley.

"Get off her! Leave her alone!" shouted a voice she would have recognised had she not just suffered moderate head trauma.

Her date muttered something along the same lines as, "Oh shit," and fled from the scene.

Molly's rescuer gave her a hand, which she took and feebly managed to stand. "Molly, are you alright?" said Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes - yes, I'm fine. Th-thank you, Sherlock. For saving me like that."

Sherlock was about to say that it had been no trouble at all, he hadn't had to actually do anything as Molly's attacker had ran like the coward he was, but he stopped himself. Instead, he said something considerably worse.

"I highly recommend that you do not see that man again, Molly. I think he is likely to be a cannibal."

That was when Molly fainted.

"Oh for goodness' sake," Sherlock muttered, and bundled the tiny pathologist up in his arms. He knew where Molly's flat was, he even had the spare key. He could have just left her in the flat alone to recover by herself, but thought it woulf be far better for her wellbeing if he stayed with her for the night - or even in the same bed, just so he could keep extra good care of her.

And that, readers, is where our story begins.


	2. Chapter 2

_Hiya! Again sorry for slowness of updates. Believe me if I could I would write this all day, every day.. but my parents and teachers wouldn't be too happy about it :(_

_Here's Chapter Two, hope everyone enjoys. If you liked it, leave a review! And if you didn't like it, leave a review! (what I'm trying to say is... I love getting reviews!)_

_Disclaimer: The words are mine, the characters are not._

_Love Misty x_

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Chapter Two

During his long, uneventful night with Molly, Sherlock learns three things.

One, Molly sleeptalks. This quite amuses him - Sherlock himself is a regular feature in many of Molly's dreams, and at one point he believes her to have said, "No, Sherlock, not now, not in the fish tank!" which even he finds difficult to decipher the meaning of.

Two, Molly is a heavy sleeper, but also tends to roll over and fidget, particularly when in non-REM sleep. Which makes Sherlock's night an uncomfortable one, as two hours into the night, Molly shifts and ends up lying sideways right on top of him. She doesn't weigh much, but Sherlock is still unable to move, and discovers it is impossible to wake her. He tries to get out of her bed on several occasions, but is scared that his movements might worsen her injuries.

Three, she often cuddles up with her cat before going to sleep. Moreover, her cat has become accustomed to this, and settles down next to her. When Molly drops off and rolls over, it decides that the awake human is much preferrable to snuggle up with than the asleep one, and promptly plonks itself right on Sherlock's head. And then to top it all, the cat dozes off and refuses to move. "Brilliant," Sherlock manages to mutter sarcastically from underneath the surprisingly substantial furry mass. "Just brilliant. Amazing."

(Actually, Sherlock learns five things; the other two being that Molly looks strangely adorable when sleeping, and that the feeling of being in the same bed as her is not an unwelcome one, but he chooses to dismiss these. He places them carefully in the room of dangerous thoughts in his mind palace and locks the door, then misplaces the key.)

(He knows getting rid of them will be much harder than that, but it's worth a try.)

Finally, at around quarter to eight, Molly stirs, still halfway in between reality and dreaming. "Mmm. Stop it. That tickles! Stop it, Sherlock! Pleeease? Alright, I surrender..." Her eyelids flutter open and she is jolted back to reality.

"Sherlock. Why.. What happened? I don't remember.." She looks down at her rib and prods it lightly. "Ow!"

"I really suggest you do not aggravate your fracture any further. I also suggest that you should not date again for a while."

"It's broken?"

"Just a hairline fracture, should heal itself within a few weeks, you can walk but no strenuous activity or it might worsen." Sherlock gets out of Molly's bed and notices she is staring. What is she finding... Ah yes, he was in pyjamas. He rolls his eyes at this: what else had Molly expected him to be wearing after a night of (not) sleeping? "And take the day off work."

Molly sighs reluctantly. "Why? If I'm fit to walk, I'm fit to go to work, aren't I?"

"You have bruises. People would ask about what happened. And if I remember rightly, I am still dead."

She admits defeat and pulls the duvet up to her chin. "Fine. But I'll be back once I'm healed."

Sherlock starts to leave the room, then spins round on his heel and faces her again. God, thinks Molly, he's really sexy when he does that. "What was I going to say again? Oh yes, coffee, black, two sugars."

Not so sexy. Molly gives him an 'Are you kidding, I'm ill, make your own bloody coffee' look.

"Oops. Forgot." With that, Sherlock leaves, and returns in a few moments with two mugs.

"How did you know what tea I drink? Oh, you're Sherlock.. Sorry."

"Nope. Just noticed the teabags you keep reserved in your locker. Lady Grey."

(He had actually looked at the most recent stain on her sofa and matched up the colour to that of Lady Grey tea using the extensive collection he had stored in his 'Tea Room' somewhere in his mind palace, but he didn't want to show off.)

(Why didn't he want to show off? He usually loved showing off.)

Sherlock perches on the edge of Molly's bed and they drink in awkward silence until Molly says (somewhat bravely regarding her usual disposition), "You don't have to pretend, Sherlock."

"Pretending? When was I pretending?"

"If the only thing you had to go on was the teabags in my locker, how do you know that I take milk and no sugar?"

She's cleverer than he gives her credit for. "If you insist, then OK, I lied. I spent five months in India for a case a few years back. We had no information about the jewel thief except for that he drunk Assam tea. I built up a knowledge of tea types and their exact colours and consistency. It proves useful sometimes. Did you know about the stain on your sofa?"

"Yes, been meaning to clean that up for ages."

"Told me all I needed to know."

Molly nods, wishing she could be able to work things out like that.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You going to be staying here? Like you did before you went to.. Wherever it is you went."

Sherlock feels a pang of guilt. He'd been so wrapped up in uncovering Moriarty's network he hadn't thought to tell Molly he was leaving, let alone where he would be going. Guilt... He decides that he doesn't like guilt. He buries it under the few other feelings in his catalogue.

"Mexico, then Italy, then New York State," Sherlock said.

"That's quite far away," Molly thinks out loud, then curses herself for sounding so simple.

"Don't state the obvious, Molly. And yes, I am going to be borrowing your flat for a few nights before I come back from the dead."

"How many nights?"

"A few. I said."

"No, like, exactly."

"If you must be so specific, then four." He paused. "Is there anything that could clash? Visitors or.. things."

(He already knew Molly hardly gets any visitors, but is bemused as to why she wants to know.)

"No! Um. No it's fine. Really. Fine. Very fine." She laughs and curls a lock of hair around her finger. Nervous tick.

Four whole nights with Sherlock, Molly marvels. Well, not _with_ Sherlock, but in the presence of. She has to stop herself from grinning like an idiot.

She takes in a shaky breath. "I.. will.. make breakfast!"

"No you won't. You are ill. It is common practice for ill people not to do such things, especially if the sickness may hinder their mobility, which your rib may well do." He stands up abruptly and leaves, Molly staring after him as he disappears into her kitchen.

"Molly?" A voice calls from outside the door of her flat.

"Shit," Molly mutters, and gets up gingerly. It's her idiot landlord who makes it her job to fuss over Molly like a second mother, which is all very well in moderation.. But moderation didn't seem to exist to -OW! Her rib twinged. Sherlock was right; walking was a bit of a hardship. She limps over to him and makes frenzied hand gestures so her landlady don't hear she's in.

"Molly, what are you -"

"For god's sake," Molly says, and drags Sherlock into the towel cupboard, shutting the door as quietly as she could behind them.

"That's my landlady. She's a bit protective and will insist on coming in, so she'll see my injuries and ask about them... She can't know I'm in. This was the only way of getting you to be quiet and not give us away." She looks down apologetically. "Sorry."

"No. It's fine, I suppose that makes sense. When can we come out?"

"When she leaves. I don't know when that'll be." Molly isn't sure whether she's enjoying being in such a small space with him. It's a little cramped and she can't move without elbowing him. But then again, this is Sherlock, and the feeling of his chest pushed up against hers is just... wow. She's glad he can't see her; she feels her cheeks staining bright red. She can hear his regular heartbeat and feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest. What's even more amazing is his smell - soap mixed with rain mixed with aftershave mixed with pure Sherlock-ness.

"Molly? Are you sure you're all right in there, dear?" Molly remains silent.

Molly's landlady reminds Sherlock a lot of Mrs Hudson. He can tell from the voice that she was born in Manchester but raised in Cardiff, and moved to London at age thirty to find work.

"Molly? Oh dearie me, she's probably at work." She walks away slowly (the volume and speed of her footsteps indicate that she is in her fifties and suffering from an ankle problem, most likely a sprain) and Molly exhales sharply.

"It's safe to come out," she whispers, almost sorry (no, most definitely sorry) that her landlady didn't stay longer so that her and Sherlock could have spent a little more time in the cupboard.

"Sorry again about the whole cupboard thing," Molly says sadly, after they both stepped out and blinked as their eyes adjusted to the light.

"It's no bother." Sherlock had already deduced early on that Molly had enjoyed being so physically close to him. It was clear; the way she kept breathing in spoke for itself. She probably has some sort of emotional attachment to his scent. He finds this rather petty (endearing) and hopes they'd never be in a similar scenario again (secretly wishes they'd had to stay in the cupboard longer).

"But - seeing as we're not, like - I mean - didn't it seem weird that -"

"Molly, I have already spent a night in bed with you and carried you back to your flat last night. Don't look so surprised, you fainted. How else do you presume I got you home? Anyway, we've had enough physical contact not to feel uncomfortable about its occurence."

"Oh. That's -"

"Then again, it is you we are talking about. Your elevated heart rate was easy to detect."

"Sh-Sherlock? What?" She blushes again.

"What? Nothing. I said nothing."

"Um. OK." Molly looks uneasy. This is the first time Sherlock has ever properly addressed her (one sided) love for him.

"Oh and Molly?"

"Yes?"

"Your eyes look particularly nice today." With that he swept out of the room, leaving Molly by the mirror scrutinising what exactly was different about her eyes.


End file.
